


The First Night, I Knew He Would Come Home

by goingbadly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual John, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1271741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Sherlock is busy with cases and doesn’t have time to fulfill John’s needs all the time, so he tells John that he should go sleeping with other people to relieve some of the pressure and tension, but he doesn’t really want John to do that.<br/>----------------------<br/>Sherlock is married to his work. John has to understand that. But, Sherlock isn't entirely willing to let John go frustrated and unfulfilled. This is the story of how Sherlock realized he wanted John to himself - with a little help from good intentions, a dating website, perfume, the nine-oh-five-train, and a Czech arms dealer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Night, I Knew He Would Come Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beautiful_Like_You](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beautiful_Like_You/gifts).



> Prompt: Sherlock is busy with cases almost all the time and doesn’t have time to fulfill John’s needs all the time, so he tells John that he should go sleeping with other people to relieve some of the pressure and tension, but he doesn’t really want John to do that. 
> 
> This is a gift for http://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshFail/ - who saw the 1492nd hit on Separation and thus activated the super-secret-Borgia-prize. Which was apparently me not working on Separation. Anyways! I'm sorry, darling, this is probably /not/ what you expected. But then again, Separation started as a prompt, so at least you didn't receive a multi-chapter monster with a million plot holes? Anyways! Ta!

John’s worn the same jeans three times in a row this week.

Sherlock watches him over the edge of his newspaper.

John shaved this morning – first time since Monday – but his hair has been finger-combed into place rather than brushed. He’s wearing the shoes Harry got him for Christmas more than a few years ago, the ones with cracks in the leather along the creases. There’s a stain on the collar of his jacket he hasn’t bothered to wipe off.

“I’m um – thought I’d go round to the shop, if you need anything?” John gestures in the direction of the door as if Sherlock isn’t aware that ‘ _the shop’_ means ‘ _out of the flat.’_

_Thank you for that helpful bit of illustration. I’d have been utterly lost without it, John._

“No.”

“Did you use all the milk for experiments again?”

“Yep.” Sherlock raises his newspaper back over his face to end the conversation. John’s already halfway to the kitchen. His stride is shortened, with a little bit of a bounce off the ball of his right foot. _Frustrated, then._

He hears John rummaging through the fridge and winces. A few of his more delicate cultures will have to be reset, not that it’s worth telling John to be more careful. The good doctor would probably object to having cultures in the chutney. Not that John _likes_ chutney, anyways. Sherlock made absolutely certain to use something he didn’t eat for the more poisonous specimens.

The fridge door shuts.

“I’m off, then,” John tells Sherlock unnecessarily. Sherlock makes an encouraging sound from behind the screen of paper.

_Yes, go on, leave._

“See you later.”

 _Why_ John feels the need to tack several exit lines on to each other, Sherlock will never know. The door slams shut behind him – there’s been a bit of trouble with the latch, and apparently John feels like _force_ is faster way to solve it than fiddling. This morning, anyways. Usually…

Sherlock tosses his paper in the general direction of the table and steeples his fingers under his chin.

_John doesn’t feel the need to take care of his appearance. Why? Because he’s not chasing after some woman, obviously. He feels no need to care about his appearance if he doesn’t have an objective in mind, how he looked before me proves **that**._

But John’s frustrated, too. Angry, even. Sherlock lets his eyes shut, putting two and two together. If it was something as simple as murder he’d have spotted it by now.

_It implies **rejection,** doesn’t it? Like some silly twit’s broken up with him again. But he hasn’t seen anyone since the last one – Miescha._

She was dark-haired, tall, and slender. She’d talked toxicology at the dinner John had made Sherlock attend – surprisingly well, although not nearly worth listening to. Sherlock had gotten up in the middle of things and left without explaining. John had insisted upon a row afterwards, then gotten sulky when Sherlock pointed out they’d lied about how they met. John said he met her at work, but he’d been on an online dating site looking at _tall, dark-haired, and slender_ for weeks. _Charming how John thinks he has a type rather than just an itch to satisfy._

Either way, it wasn’t _Miescha_ causing this. John had gotten over that disappointment appropriately quickly.

_This has been going on for weeks now. And he’s always trying to pull me away from my work to go do daft things like **dinner** or a **movie** – _

Sherlock grumbles and rolls over to his side on the couch, curling his back to the world. He hates it when John insists upon being nonsensical. _Why would I want dinner if I –_

_**Oh.**_

No, it’s too much to ask for. _Even if John’s finally have gotten over his ridiculous objection to finding me desirable, he must know it’s never going to –_

Hence the old shoes and shabby coat. _Hmm._ John might be acting more intelligently than Sherlock anticipated, for once.

Unfortunately that _is_ a problem. After all, Sherlock is married to his work. Well, every problem has a solution if you’re clever enough, and Sherlock is nothing if not clever.

_John’s left his laptop again, hasn’t he? Shouldn’t be terribly difficult to convince one of the more likely candidates to distract him._

Sherlock feels a vague bit of distaste for setting John up with a date, but he doesn’t take the time to consider why. It’s irrelevant.

The good doctor can’t go on like this.

:::::                         

Sherlock doesn’t get it right the first time, although he’s not sure how he’s _expected_ to. After all, he’s got nothing to work with but a decidedly unhelpful dating website, _and_ he has to make his interference subtle so John doesn’t notice.

The first woman he picks is clearly not good enough. She has a laugh that snags downwards at the end like a worn sweater-sleeve, and she and John do nothing but curl over each other on the couch and watch movies.

John’s thumb rubs against the meat of her arm muscle – eight milliseconds down and thirteen back up, over the same patch of skin every time. Sherlock’s counted it out in his head. Now that John’s no longer distracting him by moping, there should be plenty of time for Sherlock to catch up on the experiments he’s been doing with Norbornane – but he keeps thinking about John’s thumb, going slower on the backstroke.

John’s skin is just a shade darker than hers, warm even in the blue glow of the television. Sherlock glares at him from the kitchen, not that John notices. He’s too busy watching the screen – some asinine TV movie about a thirty-something business woman with a supposedly adorable dog. Every so often, John’s face splits in a smile; teeth white and gleaming, he glances down at the woman in his arms to make sure she’s just as amused.

He laughs, once.

It startles Sherlock out of his staring; jerking back to his work, he misjudges the distance between his face and the microscope lens. He jams the hard rubber into his eye, which waters painfully; making all further experimentation impossible.

Sherlock throws a _fit_. The woman is forced to leave – scared off by clanging pots, shattering dishes, and shouts of frustration. If Sherlock had known that would work, he’d have injured himself earlier. Luckily, at least, John seems more entertained than exasperated. He presses an ice-pack to Sherlock’s eye and chuckles to himself as he makes them tea.

Sherlock wraps his fingers around the mug John hands him, hot and steaming. John’s smile is decidedly brighter now that she’s left.

 _Not her,_ Sherlock decides firmly. _Not her._

At least it proves the concept. John _can_ be diverted from his doomed attraction to Sherlock; Sherlock just has to find someone worthy of distracting him.

:::::              

By the third candidate Sherlock is wondering how ordinary people _manage_ in the dating world. Securing women that fit John’s established taste is relatively easy, but within a few minutes of each successive woman entering 221B Sherlock universally hates them. That one isn’t pretty enough for John; that one’s too loud, with teeth that don’t fit in her face; and all of them, without fail, are **_boring._**

Sherlock finds himself staring at John in the mornings before John leaves for work, when his sandy hair is sleep-mussed and his eyes are fogged at the corners. Sherlock tries to picture the woman that will take John’s attention from him, and he can’t.

 _It’s for John’s own good,_ Sherlock reminds himself. _Work keeps me far too busy for dalliances and John will have to move past his crush sooner or later._

John turns the page of his paper, shaking his head when he reaches an article about the case they solved last week.

Sherlock tries to imagine a world where he isn’t the focus of John’s life, and he finds he doesn’t like the image very much.

:::::              

He’s about to give up entirely and then out of nowhere he finds Candidate Four. Candidate Four is a fashion magazine editor who ceded modelling to a new batch of teenagers when she hit thirty. She’s got ringlet curls and a secretive smile, favours purple lipsticks and shiny black heels. Her name is Emma, and she might as well have filled out a checklist for being John’s dream woman.

Sherlock hesitates on her profile, mouse hovering over the _Contact Me_ button. She smiles at him from five photographs, four recent and one glamour shot that’s a couple of years old. Laugh-lines are just starting to show on her face, but her hair is glossy and dark and her teeth are brilliant white against her plum-coloured lips.

There is absolutely no reason not to message her. She fits the criteria and then some.

Sherlock swallows hard.

He arranges her and John to bump into each other on John’s way home from the clinic, mainly because he can’t think of a reason not to. After all, Sherlock’s been trying to find someone like her for John.

Hasn’t he?

:::::

By the second date Sherlock knows she’s an orphan, although John does not. He knows about the resentment she hides for the young models in her magazine, and the cigarettes she sneaks on the side during her lunch breaks. He knows that she takes a train out of town every weekend, although he doesn’t know why.

John comes home late from the third date. Sherlock, waiting up for him, barely sees the cab pull over to the Baker street curb through the pouring rain. It’s one in the morning, _damn_ John for keeping him awake so late. _I’m going to be exhausted tomorrow,_ Sherlock thinks irritably, scrambling to the living room. He leaves all the lights off, so the flat is lit only by the golden shadows of the fireplace, and grabs his violin. By the time John comes up, Sherlock plans to be situated in front of the grate, halfway through playing angry, strident Vivaldi. He starts mid-phrase in the fourteenth measure of the piece (not that John can tell the middle of a song from the beginning), sending each note out to the empty room with a vicious wrench of his wrist.

The click of heels on the staircase shouldn’t surprise him, but it does.

_John brought her home._

Sherlock’s bow screeches to a painful halt on the strings. He turns, finding it difficult to breathe past the thick knot that’s formed in his throat. Emma’s plucked eyebrows are just faintly raised in the doorway, where she stands watching him.

 _No need to deduce what’s going on there._ Her shirts buttons are hastily done up. There’s a reddening mark on the side of her neck, and her cheeks are flushed. Dishevelled curls fall over her shoulders, damp hair finger-combed into place. Sherlock raises the violin back to his chin, looks away, and plays three more quiet notes of Vivaldi – accusations in a minor key.

“Sherlock,” she says, with an effort keeping her voice smooth and polite, “We didn’t think you’d be awake. John’s just paying the cabby…”

_Of course. Ordinary people don’t wait up for their flatmates out on dates._

“No, no,” Sherlock bites back at her, with a venomous smile. “Ignore me. You won’t even notice I’m here.”

John’s over-eager footsteps, taking the stairs two at a time, make Sherlock play another half-measure just to drown the sound out. He turns his back to the room, fighting the inexplicable hard knot that has formed in his throat. Reflected above the mantle, he can see John’s shadow in the door – Emma bending over to whisper something in his ear – the red soles of her heels flashing as she takes the stairs up to John’s room.

John stays where he is for at least a half-measure more. His expression is obscured in the shadows, but Sherlock can make out the fist clenched at his side. In the firelight, John’s skin is smooth and golden. Sherlock plays louder. If John says his name, Sherlock doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t _want_ to hear it. He doesn’t want to know why John is hesitating, or if John’s neck has a matching red mark to Emma’s.

 _Don’t step out of the shadows,_ Sherlock commands John silently _, Don’t come near me_.

The weight of John’s tread creaks the stairs up to his bedroom. Sherlock can’t play loud enough to drown out the murmur of Emma’s voice, welcoming him in.

:::::

Sherlock finds trains _fascinating._

Not all trains, mind. Just the nine-oh-five from London on Saturday morning, and the six forty-five returning Sunday night.

It’s been six weeks. Try as he might, Sherlock can’t find anything _wrong_ with Emma. She’s unfailingly polite, intimidatingly pretty, and he supposes she might even be _smart,_ compared to how dull most people are. There’s nothing about her Sherlock can reasonably object to. She works hard, but she makes time for John; she’s understanding, but she pushes John out of the flat when he’s moping. She even bought Sherlock the right brand of violin rosin when she saw them on sale.

Sherlock _hates_ her. He hates the sound of her heels on the steps of 221B. He hates the concealer on her neck that smudges against the wool collar of her jacket. He hates the way she brings a toothbrush over to _their flat_ and leaves it as if she has every right in the world.

(Sherlock tried to put mouse intestines on her toothbrush, one morning, and John had positively _roared._ Sherlock didn’t try twice.)

If only she made John unhappy.

But she doesn’t, and Sherlock isn’t dim enough to pretend that she does.

John’s not wearing his worn old jeans at all, anymore. Now he dresses in expensive slacks and structured black coats, brought in as samples to Emma’s magazine. The tread of his heels on the stairs changes timber with his new shoes. Before he goes out, he twists his face in the mirror to check for shaving cream left forgotten behind his ears.

John _cares_ again. He gets out of bed in the mornings without dragging his feet on the floorboards. He doesn’t even invite Sherlock out for dinner when he knows the answer will be no.

 _Isn’t this what I wanted?_ Sherlock thinks, watching from the window of 221B as John flags a cab. He tries to ignore the little voice that responds, _this isn’t what you want at all_ , but he can’t.

So Sherlock takes an interest in the nine-oh-five out of London, and its passengers.

Well.

One passenger, really.

:::::

“But her ticket’s under the name –“

“I don’t _bloody care,_ Sherlock!”

“Surely you must have _some interest_ in the fact that she’s lying to you. Even someone as thick as you must have a _glimmering_ of curiosity – ”

“It’s her business and you had absolutely _no right_ to follow her _!”_

“Boys,” Emma interrupts, amused, “Do you think I might have a say in this?”

Sherlock barks, “ _No!”_ at the same time as John says,

“Of course you can.”

They glare at each other.

Emma crosses her legs at the knee, left-over-right, scarlet toenails visible in her peep-toe shoes. She’s sitting in John’s chair, directly across from Sherlock. Sherlock hates her for that. John hovers attentively at her shoulder, and Sherlock hates her for that, too. John’s not around enough anymore. Sherlock can’t concentrate with him flitting in and out of the flat, following Emma or _meeting_ Emma or _fetching_ Emma from work. Sherlock can’t get anything done.

“Now,” she starts, carefully, “In the business I’m in, there’s a certain kind of thing you see a lot. I’m going to hazard a guess and say you guys haven’t talked about it – well, I mean, I know for a fact that John hasn’t had that conversation with you, but – ”

“Get on with it,” Sherlock snaps, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair.

John forces out words between his gritted teeth. “Let. Her. Talk.”

“Maybe it’s time you two come out of the closet.”

“ _What?_ ”

The horrified expression on John’s face makes Sherlock want to laugh. He restrains himself with an effort.After all, it’ll come to nothing – another round of John insisting he’s _not gay,_ which Sherlock will let fly, because –

 _Why?_ asks that treacherous little voice in the back of Sherlock’s head, _You’re married to your work?_

_What if one of these days he really leaves you?_

Emma’s peep-toe heel taps against the air. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I’m not _gay,”_ John says, on cue.

“I’m not _stupid,_ ” she responds. “You want to use me as a beard, I’m not going to object. The sex is alright and you’re nothing but a prince to me. But I’m too old to deal with the jealousy and _moping_. You’re a pair of grown men, for Christ’s sake.”

Sherlock frowns thoughtfully. _Moping?_

John is staring at her, aghast. “I’m _not –_ I mean – Sherlock isn’t –“

“Either way,” Emma interjects smoothly. “We can’t keep on like this. I can’t deal with it. And John’s absolutely right – “ Her eyes slide over to Sherlock, narrow and accusing, “You had no call to meddle in my business. I’m sorry to be the one to lay down ultimatums, but – “

“Goodbye. Lovely to meet you. There’s the door.” Sherlock nods at it encouragingly. John shoots him an absolutely venomous glare. It’s going to be a while before Sherlock gets his tea made in the mornings again. Ah, well. Worth it.

Emma stands, swaying effortlessly to her feet. As she swings her long jacket on, a thin thread of her perfume coils its way across the flat to Sherlock. He makes a face, and nearly misses the look she gives John.

“Is that it, then?” John asks, face haggard. His hands hang limply at his sides. Sherlock’s heart twinges at John’s hang-dog expression.

 _Don’t worry,_ he wants to tell John, _You’ll forget her soon. Then it will just be us… just the two of us…_

“Unless you want to leave with me,” Emma tells him.

John looks between them. For the first time, Sherlock feels a cold thrum of fear.

“John…”

“No. You know what? No. I’ve had enough.”

Sherlock watches, disbelieving, as Emma’s heels click down the stairs and the door shuts behind John.

:::::

That first night Sherlock thinks John will come immediately back. Each creak of the Baker Street house settling makes him look up, anticipating the humble smile with which John will come through the door.

An hour ticks by. Two. Three.

Lestrade calls with a case – triple homicide at an office building, bodies strung up by their entrails. Sherlock turns him down.

“Busy tonight,” he says shortly.

Lestrade looks around the flat. “No John, then?” Sherlock glares at him, and Lestrade grins. “Lover’s quarrel, eh. Alright, I’ll stay out of it. Let me know when you feel back up to things.”

He tucks his hands into his coat pockets amiably as he leaves, collar turned up against the wind. Sherlock glares at his shoulder blades. He can read poisonous things about Lestrade’s ex-wife in the cat hairs on Lestrade’s calves, but decides to say nothing.

John wouldn’t approve.

Hours later Sherlock calls Lestrade on his personal phone. The Detective-Inspector is groggy, barely fighting his way out of sleep in order to talk.

“Ello?”

“The case. Are the files at the morgue?”

“Jesus, Sherl… wha’time issit?”

_Four am. John’s bed is cold and unslept in._

“Are the files at the morgue?” Sherlock repeats.

“Yeah, should be… should be someone on duty, Sherlock, what –“

Sherlock hangs up, turns his coat collar up, and wraps his scarf tight to his chin. He catches himself compensating for John’s pace as he goes down the stairs, and has to remind himself there’s no reason to slow.

:::::

Time seems to lose meaning but still, somehow, three weeks go by. Sherlock still hasn’t caught the killer. A new record for failure; Mycroft is gloating.

John’s been around the hospital a couple times; working at the clinic, or dropping in to say hi to Molly. Sherlock spends most of his time at the morgue, and the first time they bumped into each other the sight of John is a sledgehammer through his lungs. The bones of Sherlock’s chest shrink inward and start to strangle him.

Emma’s perfume twines around John’s wrists and throat, clinging to the clothes she must pick out for him. He looks good. Sherlock hates it. He can’t seem to speak. John nods politely – that little jerk of the head he reserves for people he’s not on good terms with.

Sherlock wants to say something but he doesn’t know what it would be.

_The first night I knew you would come home. The second night, I merely hoped. Now I…_

He lets John pass in silence.

:::::

Sherlock’s worn the same shirt three times in a row this week. He shaved this morning – first time since last Tuesday – and finger-combed his hair into place. He’s wearing the scarf John bought him, the one that still faintly reeks of iodine. There’s a bright streak of blood on the cuff of his jacket that he’s not sure he’ll ever be bothered to clean.

He recognizes the symptoms in himself just as well as he’d seen them in John.

_But I’m married to my work –_

It makes no difference. Besides, he’s not getting any work done now. Five weeks, two days, four hours without John and counting. The Baker street house is dark and echoing.

There are probably messages from Lestrade on his phone, if he’d turn it on. He doesn’t want to. Sherlock wants to play soft lonely Dvorak to the empty flat, with his back to where John should be sitting. He wants to drink nothing but PG tips. He wants to wrap himself in apologies and make John understand he was wrong.

_I thought I was being so clever._

_You were good at warning me about being clever before._

_You win. I can’t fix it._

The fireplace is cold. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson rattles teacups around, making them tremble nervously against each other on their tin tray.

Sherlock is glad she hasn’t brought herself to come upstairs yet. She leaves food at the doorstep, and he doesn’t have to face her sympathy.

_Saw dear John at the shop the other day. He’s looking well. I wonder if we’ll hear wedding bells –_

Sherlock can almost imagine her voice, chattering over the strings. His Dvorak drops tempo and moves down into a lower register, until it sounds like a dirge.

:::::

Two months.

_At least they’re happy together. Boring life, 2.5 kids, white picket fence –_

_I’ll text him about a murder. He’ll come round then._

John doesn’t come round. Sherlock goes on the case alone. When he leads Lestrade to arrest a member of the House of Lords – during Parliament’s full session! – he wonders if John is watching. All the news channels are there, after all. Great crowds of people, shouting questions. It’s the sort of rubbish that always ends up on the telly around six pm –

_John must be settling down to dinner, Emma with her ridiculous shoes kicked off to the matt._

_He must be bored. He must miss me. He has to –_

Sherlock turns abruptly to give the waiting cameras a broad smile and a wink. _Look how much fun I’m having._ Desperate for clips and sound bites, they eat it up, shrieking for more. Lestrade gives him an odd look.

“Alright there?” he asks, concerned.

“Never better,” Sherlock tells him airily.

_Only a matter of time now._

John remains silent. The flat remains cold. Sherlock is sure it won’t be long now. It can’t be long now.

When he tries to leave 221B the next day, there’s a crowd of reporters waiting. Sherlock has to wear his deerstalker to hide his face. He turns the cap front to back, and pauses at the front door as if he expects a calloused hand to reach past him and open it.

Instinctive.

There’s no one else in the hall, of course. There never was. It is dark and quiet, Mrs. Hudson locked away in her kitchen. Sherlock stares unseeingly at the wallpaper for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

_No. Of course not._

His throat burning, Sherlock opens the door for himself.

:::::

The next case he takes brings Sherlock to the throat of a Czech arms-smuggling ring. Somewhere on the rooftops of the manufacturing district, he even manages to forget about John. It’s pouring rain. He goes slipping over the shingles, barely able to see the man in front of him.

Streetlights gleam across the water pooled in the gutters. Sherlock’s feet have no traction.

He throws himself from a steep dormer down to the flat concrete roof of a warehouse, limbs flailing in the air, and barely manages to keep his feet. His lungs scream for air. His heart throbs in his exposed, chilled fingers, the only sensation he can feel over the numbness of cold. With each slick step Sherlock can feel the muscles in his thighs burn and pull, demanding he give in to human limitation.

He pushes himself harder, faster. The Czech is barely ten steps ahead of him now. Nine. The cold air is crisp in Sherlock’s throat, almost entirely choked with rainwater. Eight. Seven –

The fugitive, reaching the end of the warehouse roof, leaps forward onto a smaller row of shops; barely managing to keep his feet at the sudden change of angle. Sherlock, in pursuit, doesn’t hesitate.

He lands, stumbles, scrapes his palm off on the rough finish of the shingles. The next step restores his balance. He’s four paces from the back of the arm dealer’s coat – he could reach out and touch it, if he just –

The next shingle gives under his feet. Sherlock feels, with a queer disassociation, the world tilt ninety degrees to the left. His arms windmill. His knee twists unnaturally, fingers scrabbling even though he knows logically that there is absolutely nothing to be grabbed.

Sherlock lists away from the roof with all the inevitability gravity in motion can muster. The man ahead of him doesn’t look back. There’s a blurred glimpse of the pavement below, all mixed in with rain and the Czech making his escape, and Sherlock has just enough time to think _damn it all,_ before he is falling.

After that, there is nothing to do but hit the ground.

:::::

Sherlock snaps at the nurse trying to take his blood pressure, pulling against the thick cotton straps holding him down. “Don’t _touch_ me,” he hisses, tossing soaked hair out of his eyes, “Or you will have more than your ongoing _affair_ to worry about.”

The nurse backs off, hands raised, eyes wide. Sherlock doesn’t blame her.

He looks like hell. His knee is still wrenched at an unnatural angle, his face patched with bruises. His once beautiful coat is soaked and ragged from being dragged through every damn puddle in London to get to a pay phone.And it would still all be alright, if Lestrade had sent the cabbie Sherlock had requested instead of an ambulance.

But no, now he’s in the hospital with a wrenched knee and two cracked ribs –to make matters worse, it’s _John’s_ hospital, during John’s shift.

_If John still works this shift. A lot can change in two months._

Sherlock fought tooth and nail against coming here on the ride over, hence the restraints. Apparently he’d earned a reputation as _dangerous._ The orderlies hated him. The nurses were terrified.

_As long as they don’t assign me Dr. Watson –_

Sherlock twists his head but he can’t see his own chart. No telling who his primary is.

“ _Nurse!_ ” he bellows.

Instead of the poor woman, however, a series of massive orderlies enter his room – five of them, single file in a stream. The last is holding a syringe.

“No,” Sherlock says, “ _No,_ dammit, I can’t _stay –_ “

But there are five of them, and he is already restrained. The needle slips into his vein with the ease of long practice, and Sherlock slides over the edge of a morphine coma.

:::::

At first Sherlock’s not sure he’s entirely come to. There’s a warm wet mass on his thigh and his eyes are completely glued shut by sleep. He has to clear them with his fingers before he can open them at all – stripping several eyelashes in the process of digging sand from his tear ducts.

Sherlock supposes he should be grateful he’s not still restrained.

When he manages to get his eyes open he sees the world through a glowing, watery film. It’s still dark outside. The room is a haze of gauzy blue-white light, streaming down from the florescent tubes of the ceiling without leaving shadows. Sherlock blinks several times, but can’t seem to focus any better.

He looks down.

The soaking warm weight on his thigh is a head full of sandy blonde hair, protruding from the white-clad shoulders of a doctor who’s apparently collapsed asleep at Sherlock’s beside.

Sherlock reaches out and runs his fingers over John’s rain-soaked hair.

_Decidedly dreaming. Must be the morphine._

_That’s okay. I’ll wake up in a minute._

In his sleep, John smiles. His face creases in all the familiar ways, and Sherlock’s chest goes tight. There are too many creases in the shoulders of John’s lab coat for a single days wear, and he smells like the deodorant he leaves at the clinic. His shoulders are damp even though he had time to fall asleep. He must have been soaked. On his sleeve, a splash of chemicals has stained the white canvas in a mirror of the bloodstain on Sherlock’s jacket.

His blue eyes open slow, and when he sees Sherlock looking down at him, his smile is so bright it’s almost painful to look at.

“You’re awake,” he says, completely unnecessarily. “God , it’s – it’s good to see you.”

“Only a wrenched knee, John,” Sherlock tells John. He means to be contemptuous – after all, what could possibly be threatening about a wrenched knee? – but his voice sounds oddly soft.

“And two cracked ribs, and a concussion,” John adds. “I hardly slept, you wanker.” He chuckles, but it doesn’t do anything to conceal his worries.

Sherlock realizes his hand is still in John’s hair, and snatches it hurriedly back. “Thank you for your concern,” he says stiffly.

John looks taken aback, and then his face drains of cheer and falls into more melancholy lines. He sits up, straightening the lapels of his lab coat, making himself presentable. “Of course.” There’s a pause.

“And Emma, is she still – “

“Sherlock, I have to tell you – “

They speak over each other, words fumbling and getting mixed up in a dissonant jam of noise. Sherlock shuts his mouth with a faint click, and gestures soundlessly – _go on._

“I have to tell you something,” John repeats, after only a slight pause. “You’re going to think it’s daft, but I saw your name on the register, and I – I thought, Jesus, what if it had been something –“ He stops mid-sentence, shakes his head.

Sherlock is struck by a sudden urge to grab John by the shoulders and demand he speak faster. “I think everything you say is daft,” he supplies, trying for humour.

John smiles weakly. “Well, especially this. There’s no way to – I guess I’ll just –“ He falls silent again, staring helplessly at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s heart tries to escape via his brain. He tries to steal the end of John’s sentence from the frayed and worn lab coat, but all he sees is –

_John. John and John and John and John and –_

“Emma was right.”

Sherlock blinks. “About what?”

“About us.”

“You don’t mean – “

“I told you it was daft.”

“But I thought –“

“Well, I’m _not_ gay,” John says defensively. “I don’t know what the hell I _am,_ but I’m not _gay._ I probably would have gone my whole life without knowing I fancied a bloke if you hadn’t thrown yourself off a damn rooftop and scared me half to death.”

Sherlock stares at him. The white lines of deduction fade out and John’s face seems to come into painfully clear focus. John smiles, self-aware and ironic.

“I came in to treat you and could hardly read your chart. Couldn’t even put an IV in right. The nurses had to get me to take a walk, for Christ’s sake – like a first year resident. That’s when I called Emma and told her I was sorry but I was going home.” John looks down at his hands. Sherlock takes the opportunity to gape at him. “I kept thinking, what if it had been something – What if you were… were dead. And the last things we’d ever said to each other would have been some stupid, silly little domestic.”

John’s thumbs twitch. He must be giving himself courage, because he looks up at Sherlock for his last words, and curls his calloused fingers around Sherlock’s hand on the bed. “You would have been gone, and you would never have known how much I – how much I loved you. So… there’s that, I suppose. Even though it’s daft. I… I love you.”

John throws the words down like a gauntlet and Sherlock wants to gather them up like flowers. He wants to clutch each syllable to himself in perfect detail, make them indelible; inscribe them on every hall of his mind-palace like frescos on a temple. He wants to tell John, _me too,_ or _it’s about damn time,_ or _I was dead, I **was** dead, don’t be silly, I was dead without you._

What comes out is, “I’ve always considered myself married to my work, John, you know that.”

John’s smile falls just a fraction. He nods, takes his hand off Sherlock, and starts to stand – as if to say, _right, then, I’ve done my bit._

Sherlock swallows down 12 ounces of valve, muscle, and aorta. What his heart’s doing so far upwards, he’ll never know. He grabs for John’s wrist and just manages to touch the pads of his index and forefinger over John’s radius bone.

“Please,” he tells John, “Let me finish. The cases are of upmost importance to me. I expect our domestic bliss to come second to them. You’re not to forbid me from any sort of danger necessary to finish a case and if you’re stupid enough to get jealous, I – ”

John cuts him off with a breathless, disbelieving laugh. Then, without warning, his body presses over Sherlock in the hospital bed.

Sherlock considers it well worth the screaming pain in his cracked ribs to tangle his fingers in John’s hair and allow himself to be thoroughly kissed.

:::::

For someone who is _not gay,_ John kisses with a hot intensity that removes all thought of heterosexuality from Sherlock’s mind.

When he’s allowed space for breath, he gasps, “Have me discharged,” urgently, clutching at John’s lab coat and leaving it even _more_ hopelessly wrinkled.

“As your physician I think I should speak against taking you home and fucking you silly,” John tells him.

Sherlock glares at him. _It’s been **months,** no word, no you, who cares about silly things like ribs or legs or bruises? _ The glare is all the communication John needs. He grins, shakes his head, and disappears for the exact amount of time it takes to have Sherlock signed over to his care.

:::::

In the hall of 221B Sherlock throws his crutch to the side and collapses against John, shoving them both into the wall. John’s shoulders are at the right height for Sherlock to brace himself on, and once John’s compensated for the weight of a tall scrawny genius they’re perfectly balanced. No problems, then.

Sherlock bends his head and finds John already straining up to kiss him. John’s lips part under Sherlock’s, soft and inviting and just slightly chapped. Sherlock licks his way slowly into John’s mouth, exploratory, not wanting to rush. He hasn’t snogged many people, and none of them have been John; he wants to know – before anything else – exactly what it is to kiss John Watson. All of it. Every slick movement of tongue, every soft gasp when Sherlock catches John’s lip on his teeth, every quiet moan half-lost in the press between them. For a long moment John just lets Sherlock kiss him, and it’s good, it’s more than good, it’s the best thing Sherlock’s ever done and he’d be quite happy with that –

But then John’s hands raise, and settle on Sherlock’s hips. He pulls Sherlock into him, and takes control of the kiss.

It’s not that things speed up, immediately. It’s not that John gets violent.

Slow and careful, John tilts his head and kisses Sherlock with no room for doubt – smooth, sure movements of his tongue and quick nudges of pressure that make Sherlock’s bones go languid. The blood in his veins seems to become hot and thick, until it’s difficult to move or think. John isn’t insistent or thoughtless. His mouth annihilates Sherlock’s brain with heartbreaking care, gentle but inexorable. Sherlock’s trouser zip digs in painfully to his flesh as his pants go tight. He moans against John’s mouth.

John nips at Sherlock’s bottom lip, a breathless snag of teeth that removes all tension from both of Sherlock’s knees. He nearly falls, swaying hard against John and the wall. It presses them tight together, Sherlock’s cock hard against the muscle of John’s stomach.

“Bed, I think,” John murmurs, so quiet Sherlock has to read it in the motion of his lips.

“Bed,” he agrees.

They stumble up the stairs, John half dragging Sherlock when his knee threatens to give out again. In the process, somehow, Sherlock manages to wrestle John out of the lab coat and button-down he wears to work. John in turn tosses Sherlock’s bedraggled jacket into the living room somewhere – it crashes into the mess, accompanied by the shattering sound of glass, and John is giggling as they shut Sherlock’s bedroom door behind them.

Sherlock likes that – John half-lit with the curtains drawn, shirtless and laughing. He grabs John’s wrist and falls into bed, pulling John down with him.

John pulls Sherlock’s shirt off and settles over him, straddling his hips. Sherlock leans up to run his open mouth over the skin of John’s neck just to see the goose bumps it leaves behind. John shudders, still grinning, and twists his head to return the favour – over Sherlock’s collar, where it can be hidden, he bites down and sucks a bruise. As he does, he rocks his hips back –

The pressure explodes fireworks against Sherlock’s eyelids, his cock separated from John’s by two pitiful layers of fabric. He clutches John’s shoulder blades, one of his finger-tips over the smooth planes of scar tissue.

In his ear, John murmurs, “You’re perfect.”

Sherlock should think of a better response than, “ _John!_ ” but he can’t, he can’t think of anything.

John, as a consequence, has to get both their trousers – god, what would his critics say if they saw Sherlock now? The clever detective, who can’t even undo his own zipper. Sherlock _ruddy_ Holmes, unable to do _anything_ but lie back and pant as John Watson takes him apart.

Sherlock’s so hard it almost hurts when the tip of his cock brushes against the warm skin of John’s bare stomach. Sherlock’s cheeks are hot, hair falling in his eyes where it’s not plastered by sweat to his forehead. His hands seem incapable of doing anything but clutching weakly at the bed sheets above his own head.

Braced over him, John starts to kiss his way down Sherlock’s torso. His mouth traces Sherlock’s collar bones, his breastbone, the sensitive skin of his nipples. Sherlock had never loved his ribs until John carved them out with his mouth. He had never thought about the line of his stomach until John traced it with his tongue. Everywhere John touches him, Sherlock’s skin feels shiny-new and tingling, like he’s alive for the first time.

“God, John,” he babbles, “Oh, God,”

He’d expected a better quality of pillow talk from himself. Maybe next time. Maybe not when John’s licking the bead of precum off the head of Sherlock’s cock with a clever flick of his tongue that whites out all brain function entirely.

“Do you have lube around here?” John asks, “I can fetch some from upstairs –“

“No – no – the bedside table, I had some for – experiments –“

Sherlock’s not sure why he tries to explain. John chuckles and presses a kiss to his hipbone before leaning over to snag the lube. The skin on his chapped lips feels unbearably real.

_I bought it for us._

The bed creaks under John’s weight as he leans over and back. Sherlock drops his head against the pillows and tries to breathe, but the air is hot and close and he can’t get enough oxygen to fuel his brain. There isn’t an inch of him that isn’t sweat-drenched and aching.

Sherlock understands, for the first time, why people are so fond of begging for more in pornography.

But he doesn’t have to. He’s hardly formed the desire before a warm slick finger is at his entrance pressing inwards. There’s a heartbeat where it feels strange – almost unpleasant – but John is a doctor. The odd feeling lasts no more than a heartbeat. Then the pad of John’s finger runs a slow, attentive circle around Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock’s eyes fly open. He makes a choked off noise, reaching up to clutch John’s shoulder.

 _Don’t stop!_ Sherlock thinks, but can’t seem to say.

John doesn’t. A second finger slides in, pressing unerringly upwards. White light and heat brush in thick strokes over Sherlock’s brain. Sherlock cries out – it’s meant to be John’s name, but that’s probably lost, indecipherable. He writhes on John’s fingers, and John leans forward to kiss him – just as slow, just as sure.

John doesn’t waste more time than he has to on prep and Sherlock would love him just for that. When John’s got three fingers in Sherlock and Sherlock is reduced to a series of hitching, broken moans, he withdraws his hands entirely.

Sherlock opens his eyes – not quite sure when he shut them, but then, he’s lost a disturbing amount of time – and looks up to see John hesitating over him. John’s hair is dark with sweat and his lips are pink from biting them. His eyes seem very, very blue.

“I don’t have a condom,” he says, carefully.

“I’m clean,” Sherlock tells him breathlessly, “And you know it, they took blood at the hospital.” He tries for reproachful but only achieves desperate. John nearly giggles, leaning down to kiss him.

“Git,” he says fondly.

Sherlock would come up with a scathing response but before he can, John rolls his hips forward in one long, smooth, thrust, rubbing the head of his cock over Sherlock’s prostate.

The response is lost in stars.

Sherlock wraps himself around John’s shoulders, tilting his hips up so on each push he can rock up to meet John. Their skin is damp and sticky, but Sherlock doesn’t care – he kisses the sweat from John’s neck, the heat from his collar. He kisses away everyone else that’s ever touched John, _his_ John, until the deep building pleasure of his orgasm becomes too much and he can do nothing but press his open mouth to John’s shoulder.

“ _John,”_ he gasps, pleading. John growls against his ear. Sherlock feels John’s body go rigid, slamming them hard together one last time. His cock catches against the taut muscles of John’s stomach.

It’s enough. It’s too much.

Sherlock buries his head in John’s shoulder, and shuddering, surrenders himself completely.

:::::

“I thought you’d be happy.”

“Well, you’re a git.” John pillows his head on his hand and looks at Sherlock over the pillows. “Promise me you’ll never do that again, would you?”

“Watch you with someone else?” Sherlock smiles to himself. “Why, Doctor Watson. I think you might convince me to promise. If you try hard enough.”

John grins. He reaches across the bed. Damn being tired. Damn recovering.

“I think I can manage that.”


End file.
